


This Is How An Angel Dies

by agirlnamedtruth



Category: Phantom of the Opera (2004)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Post-Canon, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Infidelity, Masturbation, Mirrors, Riding, Woman on Top
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-16
Updated: 2015-02-16
Packaged: 2018-03-11 13:42:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3328526
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/agirlnamedtruth/pseuds/agirlnamedtruth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She'd promised Raoul she would never come down here again. She'd promised Meg and Madame Giry and even herself. But her slippered feet could not keep the promises her lips made.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This Is How An Angel Dies

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the [Porn Battle Amnesty](http://pbam.dreamwidth.org) round "Golden Oldies" for the prompts "return, underground, mirror, flying". Title from [Sail](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tgIqecROs5M) by AWOLnation.

Coming down here alone was not the same as it had been with him. There were no illusions to distract her from the dark, the dirt, the cobwebs, the cold dripping water. There was nobody to keep her from looking back. No adrenaline, no rush, no spark. But there was no fear either. Her wits were her own and she came down here by choice. The thought should be more disturbing than the alternative, Christine realised, but it wasn’t.

Everything was how it had been that night; the fire had never quite made it this far down. The boat looked like it was almost waiting for her and this time; she pushed it along herself, fighting the calm, still water with the great black oar. The great portcullis was open from when they had left and when the bank came into sight, all his creations, his music were untouched by looters for fear they would anger the great opera ghost.

As her feet touched dry land again, she looked out over the lake. It had once been the edge of her cage but now she looked at it, she realised if she'd really wanted to, she could have walked through the water, swam where it got too deep, if it ever did. Many men had managed it, in her rescue attempt. She’d never even thought to try.

She turned away, shivering from the cold and damp again. She wondered just how deep down she was. She wondered how much further down it went. Wondered if she kept going down and down, she’d find him in another lair, even more hidden than before. But it was impossible, the tunnels had been searched, there was no way down and no way back up again. This was it, the last secret the opera house had left.

She glanced over the bed, where she’d slept so soundly that her previous life could have been a dream. Swallowing, she turned away from it. The draw to curl up and sleep was too great. She might never return to the real world if she gave into it now.

Instead, she found his chair and sat upon it. Catching herself in the great mirror, she drew her legs up, feeling altogether too small and too pale for such a dark throne. She rested her head on her knee, looking at her reflection at an angle, almost trying to see through the glass.

“Angel,” she said softly, the same heavenly feeling overwhelming her as it always had. “Erik.”

The candle flickered and she smiled, as if the fantasy of the place was shaken by his true name. She’d only found it out afterwards. She’d never said it out loud, she’d always dehumanised him again, unable to reconcile the three entities. Her angel of music, the devil that stole her and Erik, so scared of her kindness that he’d fled from it.

She could have learned to love him, she was sure of it. She’d prepared herself to stay and in her liberation, she’d already started falling. She had looked back. She had gone back. And though she’d been certain a moment before that he had no heart, she had seen it broken and broken her own a little at the same time.

“I came back,” she said to her reflection. She wasn’t sure if she meant now or then. Both, perhaps.

She was frozen and her skin was gooseflesh but she stood, unfolding her frame and regaining her poise, her posture, as she had been taught. She’d worn white for him, like she could be that girl again but now she slipped it off, wanting to bare herself in front of the mirror, see what he saw in her. Shivering again, she rubbed her arms, covering her chest briefly before finding her resolve again. It was just like a dance, a performance. Even when she forgot herself, she must recover. 

The candle flickered again and she looked changed. She looked strong, wilful, determined. She could remember the steps, even the lyrics, but she wouldn’t sing tonight. Instead she moved forward, closer and held her hands out to the glass, touching the reflection of her fingertips. This had been how he’d come forth before. She couldn’t help but hope. She couldn’t stop herself from trying in vain.

Staring into the mirror, she saw herself with the same eyes he had. She longed to possess herself, to stay locked away, only for herself. She raised a shaking hand to her hair, pulling it from the tight ballerina bun. It flowed freely over her shoulders, brushing her chest. Her heart racing still, she let her hands stray down over her body. She touched where he had touched and pushed further, finding her clit with her fingers, breast pressed against the glass, refusing to break eye contact with her reflection. This is how he’d wanted her. This is how she felt when she sung with him, when he was inside her in every way imaginable except for the way she hadn’t dared think about. The way that before she’d learned the truth, had given her dreams of angels coming to her bed, bringing her divine ecstasy. Now her dreams were dark, of how she hadn’t been rescued and she had been made to stay. How she’d kick and scream and bite, not because she was scared anymore but because she had to, the intense feelings rushing inside her as she gave into her desires, gave into the dark, fucked him with no thoughts of angels or of phantoms, only feeling the solid flesh beneath her.

As she got closer, she started to think she could see him in the mirror, a shadow growing behind her, edging closer until she could almost feel his hands on her waist, on her ribs, making her breath to reach the peak of her pleasure. She leaned back into her memory’s touch and found him more than a ghost.

“Sing,” he whispered against her ear, breath warm and definitely... _breathing_.

Biting her lip, she cried out a single note, falling apart against him. Weak-kneed, she almost fainted again, like the very first time but she forced herself to stay conscious, she didn’t want to risk waking up and finding this another one of her dreams.

He laid her back on the bed but she reached out, catching the white frill of his shirt in her hand, finding it unquestionably real.

“You came back,” she found herself saying, even though she suspected now that he had never truly left. It was her that had returned to him, he had merely waited for her.

This time, there was no mask, no hiding. Nothing but truth. Using her grasp on his shirt, she pulled him down, kissing him with the passion she’d not felt since she’d stopped singing. Since a little bit of his darkness had taken up residence in her heart and she’d started shying from the light.

His hand warm on her breast without the desensitised barrier of his gloves felt like it had burned an imprint into her chest, making her come alive again. She could feel him hard against her and she let her knees fall apart for him, the surest sign she could give him.

“You surrender?” he asked against her lips, the slightest hint of the man he used to be, the man that thought it was about taking, not giving, that the only way he could have her is if she gave up fighting.

“No, I declare it a draw,” she said, laying her hand on his chest, guiding him onto his back so she could straddle him. “Neither of us need surrender.”

Unbuttoning his shirt, she looked at him like she had looked at herself, finally accepting what she had feared back then. Herself. Him. This.

Crumpling the shirt in her hands, she cast it aside, chasing another kiss to keep herself from growing cold. Lifting her hips as she lowered her lips down to his, she reached to find the laces of his breeches and pulled them apart with nimble fingers. Slipping her hand inside, she broke the kiss, searching his face for some reflection of her own desires, her own secrets. But he'd never made a secret of how he felt about her. It was written clear on his face, he’d never learned to hide it like she had and she was damned if she was going to hide it any longer.

“I still dream about you,” she said, guiding him inside her. “For all I know, this is just another dream.”

But feeling him fill her, bit by bit, the sheer unbridled pleasure she felt as she shifted her hips forward, uninhibited by the bonds of marriage, by the expectations of her friends. Forgetting that she was supposed to be this saint, this angel, that had come out of such darkness untouched, she let him catch her hand, hold it tight, anchor her to the night. His other hand tightened on her waist, slowing the roll of her hips. Back then, he had told her he'd never known a woman before and the way he clung desperately now told her that hadn't changed. She smiled encouragingly, laying his other hand on her hip. She couldn't imagine this would have been how it would have gone before. Not when he thought he had to take, rather than simply ask. But then, she couldn't say how she would have acted either, a virgin herself. No more than a child, really. But then she'd always given herself wholly to everything else he'd shown her, all he'd asked of her. Now she was asking of him. Now she asked to lead the way. In time, she'd be able to loosen her grip on control but not this time, even if it meant it was over too soon. If it were a dream, it wouldn't matter anyway. And if it wasn't, well, there would be time enough to make up for it.

As if to assure herself that it wasn't some fantasy, she braced herself against his chest, feeling him breathe, feeling a power there that could hold a note as strong as she but dared not make a sound for fear of frightening her off. Leaning down again, she pushed back his hair, ignoring the angry red skin to whisper in his ear, "Trust me." Her lips twisting into a smile as she takes his hand and moves it down to her clit, her tone lower as she adds, "Touch me."

As though finally realising she was real, she was not some fantasy of his, he pushed up against her hands, sitting up, his chest against hers, skin against skin. His fingers firm on her clit and his arm strong around her back, she rocked her hips hard against him, feeling him even deeper. She was so close, she can't help but sing, meaningless words falling from her lips only to be caught by his. Unable to hold back any longer, she came, clinging to him, getting lost in the music in her own head, fighting to escape on ragged breaths. It feels like flying, higher than any time before, higher than when she truly thought him an angel.

She felt him follow, hot inside her and for a moment, she catches her breath, just in case it is real and she ends up in trouble for these few sweet moments of finally feeling her soul complete again, like it used to be before. But she cannot force herself to regret it, even as her senses return to her.

Distantly, she was aware of gentle kisses being pressed to her cheek and her neck before she is set back on the bed, covers thrown over her with such flair, she imagined it was like being swallowed by darkness itself.

When she woke, she didn't open her eyes. It had been so real, such a vivid dream, she could still feel silk against her skin, still smell the wax burning in the candle she'd left lit, still feel warmth in the body beside her. But she supposed it was the candle the servant had left by the bedside, the silk of her nightdress, the sleeping form of her husband.

She sighed and opened her eyes, blinking twice to make sure she was really awake. Even though it was still darker than the rest of the world, the lair was aglow with candles, more than she could count and strings of dried flowers had been curled around the bedpost. She traced the outline of Erik face with her eyes and smiled sleepily. She wasn't home at all and yet, more than ever, she was.

**Author's Note:**

> As of 01/01/18, I'm opting to disable comments. [More information here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/13077201).


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